


Half Dead

by Reene_Lou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reene_Lou/pseuds/Reene_Lou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the Reichenbach Falls, John goes through Sherlocks papers and finds an unfinished experiment. He can't shake the idea and becomes obsessed with making it a reality. I've given away more than I probably should with this summary.</p><p>On Hiatus because I have Teen Wolf feels...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I think you buried me awake.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is the first thing I've ever written I've actually felt like publishing. I have a rough idea where I'm going with it and you'll never guess it in a million years, but hey ho! Read and enjoy the journey dear Sherlockians.
> 
> Reviews are needed to let me know if this is shit or not.
> 
>  

Mrs Hudson had first noticed the smell a couple of days ago, it was mild at first but was now almost unbearable.

She supposed it was all the empty takeaway cartons and un-emptied bins… Sure enough the body parts Sherlock had kept in the fridge must still have been there.

Yes, that was it she told herself as the lights in the hallway flickered.

She shuddered to think the state that fridge must've been in, resolving to check on John in the morning.

* * *

Six weeks previous.

John felt his heart break as his fingers clutched desperately at Sherlock's wrist.  _Please, please_  his mind had repeated fanatically in the vain hope that mere denial of the facts would bring him back.

The facts were he'd just seen his friend, his best friend throw himself off of the roof at St Barts' hospital. His legs had buckled and near gave way on the run…  _Please, please._ His mantra now.

He'd been shoved by a cyclist, knocked clean over, still he stumbled on.

Tears and fear building in his chest.

_Please, please._

He'd come against a barricade of people surrounding the body, not body he'd admonished himself, Sherlock they're helping Sherlock… His hands had groped blindly through the tears, reaching for a wrist. His legs had finally given way as he'd sunk to the floor in an effort to get past the crowd and to his friend.

_Please, please…_

He'd held Sherlock's already cooling wrist, breathing out deeply and trying to steady his breathing enough to clear his head and focus on finding a flicker or stutter of a pulse.

Feeling nothing but the emergency crews lifting, pulling Sherlock onto the gurney and away from him.

He'd tried to scream, to shout "but he's my friend" to keep him close but they were gone and John was left on the ground beside the scarlet pool of blood, surrounded by people and so utterly alone.

Everything went dark.


	2. How to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Part two, I know they're very short but as I've already mentioned I'm still in the process of writing this up. I have two or three more chapters at the ready so gimmie a review or PM if you're enjoying this. I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> Thanks my dears!

**_  
_**

Greg had taken John from Molly and loaded him into the squad car with reassurances that he would take him home and look after him. Poor Molly had looked even worse than John if that were even possible; she muttered something about making sure to take care of him, promising.

In truth he doubted John would even want to look at him, let alone be consoled by him.

How could he have been so stupid? So easily lead? So effortlessly manipulated.

Sherlock had been a bastard an annoying, interfering know it all… But he'd never been a liar.

Greg doubted he even knew how to lie. Sure he could act with the best of them, putting on pretenses to ensnare witnesses and colleagues alike.

His heart sat in his stomach and he imagined he could feel it dissolving in the acid.

* * *

John lay on the back seat, completely still, the tiniest movement of the car causing his head to pound…

He thought about nothing and everything at once.

* * *

Greg pulled the car up outside the door. He sat there for a while, his head hunched on the steering wheel.

His eyes burned and blurred at the same time.

He had no idea how long they sat there.

A small tapping came at the window and he was pulled back into reality.

Mrs Hudson at the window a furious glare on her face… "Haven't you done enough? Taking my boys away in the dead of night!" She stopped at the look on his face, saw John lying in the back seat.

"Where's Sherlock?" She questioned.

The look on his face must have said it all. Her face crumpled and she pulled on the door handles to get to John.

They held his weight between them, Greg taking the most of it, Mrs. Hudson holding his head close to her shoulder stroking his hair in an effort to comfort herself as much as him.

They laid him down on Mrs. Hudson's sofa, certain that he wouldn't want to be in 221b right now surrounded by his and Sherlock's possessions.

They didn't speak until they were in the kitchen, and even then the words seemed to fail him.

They sat in silence at the small kitchen table, cups of tea growing steadily colder in front of them.

"Tell me what happened" She asks looking at him imploringly. "Where is he?"

He talked until his voice broke. Everything he knew about what had happened, speculating on the rest. Until he came to the fall and the fact that Sherlock now lie in the mortuary at St Barts.

Her body seemed to shrink and she took on the appearance of a woman very much her age.

Thanking him for John's safe return, she very politely told him in no uncertain terms that she wished never to see him cross the threshold of 221b Baker Street again.

* * *

Taking a blanket from the airing cupboard she draped it over the still cataleptic figure that was John.

Turning the living room lights off, she stared at him for the longest time.

Her heart broke for him.


	3. It's not true.

He woke again not knowing the time but guessing from the pink tinges streaking the sky it was early.

Army life kicking in, his body always snapped into this routine when he was stressed it meant less sleep and more time thinking. Not for the first time he cursed the army and the influence they’d had on his life.

His mobile had rung until the battery died. It seemed everyone was worried for him, Interaction at this point seems like an impossibility, John knows Mycroft has the flat under surveillance and he faintly remembered Mrs Hudson knocking on the door in the hours he lie comatose in bed.

He plugs the phone into charge noticing the slight shake of his hands as he does so it brings a bitter smile.

Falling back onto the bed he fights the urge to give into tears, he felt as though everything had faded into this grey nothingness. That even to get up would require an effort he wasn’t prepared to give.

His grief bit at him like a frost causing numbness and then a burning pain as reality started to seep in and the analytical part of his brain began to bombard him with the things that needed to be done.

He needed to get up, he very much needed to shower and quite possibly burn these clothes and sheets. The knees of his jeans were stained with blood and sleeping in his clothing had done nothing but make him feel even worse.

Groaning with the effort of moving after sleeping for the best part of thirty hours he drags his legs over the side of the bed and stands, his stomach cramps with hunger but his head rebukes the idea of eating.

Stumbling to the bathroom he pulls his clothes off with an effort and steps into the bath turning on the shower head not even waiting for it to heat up.

Leaning his head against the wall he feels the icy water rain down upon his back, he pulls back and head-butts the wall the pain sending sparks across his vision, his fists pound the wall repeatedly the pain pushing back the tears. Crimson streaks splatter the tiles and fade as they wash down the drain.

* * *

In the kitchen his hands can barely grasp the kettle as he pours what might possibly be the most anticipated cup of tea this side of the equator and of course on opening the fridge there’s no milk he almost screams in frustration.

But he just hasn’t got it in him instead he puts the kettle back down on the side and grabs his coat and keys before leaving the flat.

It couldn’t have been a nicer day, the skies blue, birds tweeting and letting the world know that it was a new day. The complete antithesis of how he was feeling. 

Still early enough that most people were tucked up in bed fast asleep. He gives thanks for small mercies as he crosses the street in search of corner shop open at this time. 

He makes his way past the shopkeeper, past the newspapers to the chillers at the back of the shop. He pays for the milk with mumbled thanks and leaves desperate to avoid recognition his brief glance at the newspapers had confirmed his fears, Sherlock’s name in bolded letters aware his would be in there too he has no desire to hear the man’s thoughts on the subject. 

He realizes the cameras are following him about two streets away from the flat and wonders if he can get home without being accosted into a car with tinted windows and a distinct lack of license plates. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Part three, I'm having trouble finding a beta... I don't suppose anyone reading this knows of one? 
> 
> I'm looking for one with strong grammar skills, the ability to slap me when I change tenses mid sentence and to get me back on track when I go off on tangents. 
> 
> I'd love you if you could point me in the right direction :) x


	4. Without you I'll be miserable at best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Part four, slightly longer me thinks. As you may have noticed this story is a WiP I have the rough outline of it down don’t worry about that it’s just a matter of fleshing out the dialogue. Be patient with me C: 
> 
> And as always thanks for reading my dears!

 

He’s in no mood to see Mycroft he has no idea what he’ll do, how he’ll react. Mycroft’s actions had led to this and in no small part did he blame him for Sherlock’s death. 

He gets no more than halfway down the street before said car appears at the end of the road. He can feel the blood boiling in his veins. Continuing on he walked to the end of the road and purposely swerved round the back of the car and back on the pavement, no longer walking but falling back into the marching pace of his army days. It’s not that he’s scared of seeing Mycroft it’s that he’s scared of what he’ll do to him if he does see him. 

The car pulls up bedside him and the window rolls down to reveal not Mycroft but Anthea “John please,” she sounds tired but from the quick sideways glance he takes she looks immaculate as always “John, just get in the car I need to speak to you.”

 He stops dead and swerves round to face the car. “What! What could you possibly have to say?” it’s not just anger it’s frustration building up inside him, he genuinely wants to know “What is it then? Can you explain this? How it got to this?” He strides towards the car waiving his hands still clutching the cold milk carton “Why he’s dead? My best friend’s gone and you want to talk…” he finishes this attack spitting the final “talk” with venom enough to make her shrink against the leather seat. 

Standing there he looks at her taking it all in disgust blossoming on his face. “Just stay the hell away from me” He warns his voice low and threatening “And that goes for Mycroft too” And with he’s gone.

* * *

Shocked she sits there for a while her heart thumping before remembering what she’d been sent to do she checked the time on her blackberry and disappointment mixing in with her fear. Her job had been to distract John whilst Mycroft went to the flat to oversee the removal of some of Sherlock’s more “classified” work.

Personally she thinks the guilt is eating away at him and he’s looking for a reason to be in a place that so clearly screams Sherlock to feel close to him, to get seek some sort of forgiveness. Forgiveness he wouldn’t have expected Sherlock to give and he most definitely would not afford himself.

She’s failed Mycroft will still be at the flat and at the rate John’s approaching their meeting will be unavoidable. She peels off a text to Mycroft letting him know that John’s on the way back and takes a moment to settle herself.

She hasn’t slept yet although as john noticed her appearance wouldn’t betray this. She acknowledges the reason why she felt so frightened of John. Not his words but his face, his mannerisms Sherlock she realizes she could see Sherlock on his face and hear him in the venomous way John had threatened her.

John had indeed changed Sherlock, softened him. No not softened but made him more malleable more tolerable of the ordinary people that had surrounded him.  But Sherlock had changed him too given him this edge that hadn’t manifested until just now the ability to convey every ounce of hatred and disgust in a single glance.

 

 


	5. Waiting for you to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I know it’s been awhile… What can I say other than sorry?  
> Chapter four is here, please enjoy and as always thank you for reading my dears.

He slams the front door shut, he's angry of course he's angry; he's got every right to be angry but it's not just that he's shocked he hasn't spoken to anyone like that in a very long time.

Words spoken in anger are irretrievable his psychiatrist had once told him. It was something he'd always kept in the forefront of his thoughts living with Sherlock a man who could have tried the patience of a particularly patient saint.

Sherlock had often been subject to Johns abrupt silences indicating that he was biting back what he was about to say, searching for a less impolite way to tell him he was acting like a dick.

Frustration, tea and danger… Those were the three words John would use to describe day to day life with Sherlock.

* * *

Climbing the stairs he's so deep in thought he doesn't notice the soft thudding noises coming from inside the flat. Opening the door he's confronted by a mass of men in suits ripping books from shelves and flinging them into boxes. Mycroft is nowhere to be seen but John knows this is his doing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He yells pushing past the burly men and into the kitchen he puts the milk on the side and is back in the living room he's on his knees grabbing books from boxes and piling them onto the sofa. "John please contain yourself" Mycroft's voice holds a hint of warning as he walks into the living room his hands still gloved, obviously above the menial task of packing boxes.

"You have no right to be here!" John's voice is quiet and he keeps his eyes on the box of Sherlock's books, trying to keep his emotions in check. "I have every right to these documents;" Mycroft asserts "Sherlock had things in his possession, which are… Well shall we say delicate in nature? They're being confiscated to protect Queen and Country" John kneels there for few seconds trying to process Mycroft's words, his behavior, and his apparent lack of emotions regarding his brother's death.

"You should have protected him" his voice so quiet he knows Mycroft hasn't heard him his fingers skim over the front of a heavily battered copy of the A to Z of London and then it's in his hand and he's throwing it. "You should have protected him!" he screams rounding on Mycroft ready to beat that look of indifference off of his face. "It's been hours! Don't you feel anything!"

"I admit my part in this but sentiment will do nothing but cause difficulties with the cleanup."

The noise John makes is somewhere between a choke and a laugh, his flies to his mouth to cover the tremor in his lip "My god, and I called him a machine? At least he felt… I was there for him in the end, he cried because he didn't want to go" The tears in his eyes threaten to overspill "And you can't even acknowledge your own feelings?"

"He's gone" Mycroft breathes "Nothing can be done." John's takes him in, his eyes scanning every inch of Mycroft's face. It's a useless endeavor; eyes which might have once held remorse, sadness or even guilt were now just glassy orbs reflecting his image back at him.

"Just go, please just go… Leave me in peace" He draws in a shaky breath "because I can't do this right now"

Silence grows heavy in the room. Mycroft's men shuffle awkwardly at this display of emotions is if to continue but unsure. Some unseen gesture from Mycroft and they're putting books and papers down and leaving the flat.

"You only make this harder for yourself Doctor Watson" And with that he leaves.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I like to post my fics on [tumblr](http://captainsourwolfandadderallboy.tumblr.com/) too so stop by and say hello C:


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